


Now You Have Me

by Hazzalovescarrots



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Prom Style!, loucel - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 13:37:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hazzalovescarrots/pseuds/Hazzalovescarrots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>School's nerd Marcel asks popular Louis to prom!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now You Have Me

**Author's Note:**

> Don't own 1D.

“Come on, boy, you’ve got to pick up the pace!”

   A whistle blows. Marcel looks up from his book, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. The grass on the footie field is extra green today and the sun is blazing directly on the boys playing. They listen intently as coach Brenn gives out orders in a harsh tone. Sweat is glistening on the players’ foreheads and they are breathing hard from the effort.

   Marcel attempts to read his book and get lost in his little world as he always does, but something is bothering him. Or someone, really.

   Louis Tomlinson is dribbling a ball past a cone and into the goal with perfect ease and skill. His jersey is tight around his torso, his shorts showing quite a bit of leg and his hair is messy, flinging in his gorgeous blue eyes. Marcel admires the lithe length of Louis’ body. He is short, but his gracefulness and speed make up for that as he feints left and right, dodging strikes and swinging arms.

   Marcel’s friend Leeroy nudges his ribs, winking spasmically. He huffs and rights his glasses, smoothing his hair back, shifting the book balanced in his lap. Leeroy’s outfit today is extra pink and honestly, it hurts Marcel’s eyes.

   “Just ask him out already,” Leeroy says and Marcel rolls his eyes. “Even better, take him to prom!”

   Marcel starts, incredulous. Leeroy looks back innocently and then flicks his fingers towards Louis on the field.

   “Just ask him. The worst he can do is say no,”

   Marcel’s mouth is twisted to one side and he is about to open it to say he could do much worse, when a ball hits him in the head. His book tumbles from his lap and stars loop over his vision. Leeroy exclaims, his hands over his cheeks, horror on his face.

   Marcel sees a figure coming, but his sight is blurry; he can’t see who it is. 

   “Oh shit, are you okay? I’m so sorry,” a soft, soothing voice says. All Marcel can see is _blueblueblue._ He’s pretty sure his glasses are crooked and his eyes are rolling into the back of his head, but he manages to close them momentarily. When he opens them      

again, his vision is slightly more clear and he can see the curvy figure of Louis Tomlinson in front of him.

   His hand is petting the spot that hurts and Marcel finds himself leaning into the touch.  

   “I really am sorry. Is there anything I can do? Get an ice pack or something?” Louis says gently.

   Marcel sees his opportunity and doesn’t miss out on it. “You can go to prom with me.” He hears Leeroy’s almost inaudible squeak beside him. Louis’ face is one of shock. It takes a while for him to answer and in the meantime, Marcel is getting more and more insecure. “Please. If you don’t want…”

   “Tomlinson! Get your butt back on the field!” Coach interrupts, face red. For a moment, Marcel thought he could see smoke steaming from his ears. Jeesus, that ball must have hit him pretty hard. Louis seems torn. He keeps flicking his gaze back and forth between Marcel and Coach. Eventually, he smiles mysteriously.

   “Meet me outside the doors at seven, alright? Still sorry about your head.” he says and sprints off, cradling the ball under one arm.

   Marcel and Leeroy are frozen and disbelieving.

   “Did you just-?” Leeroy says and it’s the slowest Marcel’s ever heard him speak.

   “Uh-huh.”

   “And he just-?”

   “Uh-huh.”

   “You’re going to prom with Louis Tomlinson!” Leeroy shrieks and Marcel has to shush him to avoid the team overhearing.

   _Holy crap,_ he thinks.

***

   “Gemma! I need help. Now!” he yells, the sound of his voice sounding through the house. His older sister comes clambering down the stairs, wielding a bat in her grip. Marcel starts.

   “Why do you have a bat? Nobody in this house even plays baseball.”

   “It’s for protection,” Gemma insisted. “I thought you were hurt. You called out for help.”

   “Not for that. Tonight is prom night and I need your help getting ready.”

   Marcel is freaking out. These past three days has been nothing but awkward for him and Louis. Whenever he had walked down the hall with his best mates, Niall and Zayn had snickered at him, leaning into each other and hiding their faces. Louis had punched them in their shoulders, scolding them before sending an apologetic glance towards Marcel. Marcel had hid his face, blushing like crazy.

   The swelling in Marcel’s face has finally gone down and he doesn’t have to borrow foundation from, not surprisingly, Leeroy anymore.

   Gemma lowers her bat, dropping it carelessly to the floor. “Oh. Do you have a suit?”

   Marcel nods frantically. Gemma claps her hands and rubs them together. “We have work to do. Go take a shower, wash the wax out of your hair and then, sit at my make-up table.”

   The boy hurries to comply. Fifteen minutes later, he is sitting at her table, rubbing a towel through his hair. He has put on his onesie, not daring to have his suit. His naturally curly hair is sticking up in every direction possible and he cringes, desperately wanting to dump wax in it and smooth it back, away from his face.

   Gemma breezes into the room and, having stolen products from Marcels’ room has her arms full of hair gels, waxes and combs. Marcel fidgets in his chair, worried of the outcomes Gemma’s primping will produce. She sets everything down on the table top and examines the bottles with her mouth curved to one side. She picks up a bottle, a jar and a comb from the mix.

   “Here goes nothin’,” she huffs.

   Marcel’s hair is so soft that when she pulls the comb through it, she feels almost no resistance. That’s a relief, since they only have an hour and a half until he has to meet Louis. She dabs her hands with moisturizing oil and drags them over his locks. Marcel closes his eyes. He isn’t used to being pampered by his sister. The only time he ever has with her is when they sit in front of the TV or the occasional dinner, which consists of take-out. That is why he relishes the minutes he has with her like this.

   Gemma tucks the jar of wax under one arm, gliding the substance onto the comb and then pulling it through his curls. She hefts it up, so it sticks in the air. She twirls it into a little quiff, not high, but enough to be out of his face. It is still curly, spiraling in at the tips.

   His sister is mumbling to herself, checking off things on her ‘list’. “Oil; check. Wax; check.”

   She picks up a large can, one from her own collection and sprays it over Marcel’s head. The boy coughs into his fist, waving a hand around his face to get the mist away.

   “Hairspray; check,” she steps back. She tilts her head to the side, considering his face. She flits over to a little box beside Marcel and picks out a few objects. She takes one from the bunch and places the rest on the table.

   Marcel twines his hands together, nervous. He hasn’t dared look in the mirror once. The tiny cylinder in Gemma’s hand turns out to be lip balm. She drags that over his lips, to make them shinier and less chapped. She makes him pucker up, which he cringes at, frowning the whole time like a child. Gemma sniggers at his face. She pinches his cheek.

   “You’re so cute,”

   Marcel glares daggers at her, at which she just laughs at.

   “I don’t want to be cute. I want to look good.”

   Gemma sighs dramatically. “Oh, honey, by the time I’m done with you, no one will be able to take their eyes off of you.” At that, Marcel perks up. He sits, waiting patiently for her to continue. A brush appears in her grip and also, a metal container. She flicks it open and dips the brush in, then lifting it up to smooth over his cheekbones and forehead. Marcel cocks his head in confusion.

   “It helps with your complexion. Makes your skin look healthier,” she explains, but when Marcel just gives her a blank look, she rolls her eyes. “Just trust me on this.”

   A few minutes later, she is done, folding her arms over her chest. “You’re done. Now, all you need is a suit.”

   Marcel opens his mouth to answer, but is interrupted by his mum flitting into the room, clutching a long white bag. She hurries over to place it on the bed and then, gives her son a once-over.

   “Baby, you look so handsome,” she reaches up to kiss his cheek and pat his hair, but Gemma waves her arms in protest, clucking her tongue.

   “Don’t ruin my masterpiece!”

   Their mother settles for giving him a one-armed hug and pecking her daughter on the head instead. She then, pulls the zipper down on the white bag and plucks out a black blazer and black dress trousers. Marcel frowns.

   “What about a shirt?” he asks. Anne scrunches her eyebrows together.

   “I guess I forgot to order one. You can just pick one of your own.”

    Marcel’s eyes widen in panic. Gemma rolls her eyes, again. “Come on, little brother. I’ll help you.” She strides into his  
bedroom, Marcel scurrying close behind. She opens his drawers and digs in them. Her head perks up and she twists towards Marcel. “I’m not gonna find anything…personal in here, am I?”

   The boy raises his eyebrows, confused until the meaning behind the question sinks in.

   “No! Absolutely not!” he exclaims. Gemma scoffs and returns to digging in his drawers.

   She bites her lip as she holds up a shirt; completely black. “Will this be okay?”

   Marcel nods, still wide-eyed. Gemma quickly exits the room and when she returns she is holding the trousers and blazer. She scurries out again, giving him room to change. He still hasn’t dared look in a mirror so he stays away from them until the finished product. He hops into the trousers, tipping over a few times. They are very tight and he struggles for a while, but manages to zip them up. He slips his shirt on and buttons it and tugs his arms through the black blazer.

   _Show time,_ he thinks and yanks the door open. His sister and mum are standing just outside. Anne gasps, clasping her hands together and Gemma’s mouth drops open. She takes hold of her mum’s shoulder and gives them a slight shake.

   “Our little boy’s growing up,” Anne sniffs, grasping her daughter’s hand in hers.

   Gemma nods. “We did good.”

   When they are standing down in the kitchen, Gemma tugs on Marcel’s collar. She presses something into his hand. Car keys. Marcel gapes at her unbelievingly. His sister cringes.

   “Just don’t break her, okay? Extremely expensive, she was.”

   Marcel nods eagerly. Anne steps forward, holding out a plastic, see-through box and kisses him on the cheek.

   “Don’t forget this, hun,” she whispers. Marcel smiles.

   With butterflies in his stomach, he climbs into the car. He briefly wonders what Louis looks like and what he’ll think of Marcel.

 

Louis pauses outside of the doors of the gym.

   Streamers and lanterns are hung up in trees and along the walls. A table is set up to receive all the guests and two sophomores are sitting there, plucking tickets out of people’s hands and sending them in. Music floods out from the doors.

   Louis thumbs the ticket in his pocket. Fashionably late is always good, but now he is certain he looks like a fool, waiting for his date. He has on the regular three-piece suit; black jacket and trousers and a white crisp button-down shirt under, with a black tie. The trousers are tight around his bum, something he is very proud of. His hair is combed up into a quiff, a gentle caramel brown color.

   Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Zayn stumbling over with Perrie and Niall in tow. He claps Louis on the back.

   “So, he’s a no-show, huh?” Zayn quirks his mouth to one side. Louis shrugs him off.                                                                     

   “No,” he says, stubbornly. “He’s just late, that’s all.”

   Zayn is about to open his mouth to say something, but at that moment, a car screeches into the parking lot. It’s a silver Mercedes. A crazily expensive car and Louis wonders who possibly could own that.

   His answer comes a few seconds later, when the car door swings open and out steps the most gorgeous boy Louis has ever seen. He is dressed completely in black. Shoes, blazer, trousers and shirt. It clings to his body very nicely and Louis admires the long stretch of the boy’s torso and legs. Pinned to his blazer is a single white rose and in his hand, he holds a plastic box with an identical flower inside.

   _He has a date_ , Louis realizes. _And mine is nowhere to be found._

   The boy’s hair is chocolate brown and swept up into a slight quiff. It looks very soft and shiny and Louis wants to run his hands through it, but he catches himself, feeling guilty because he has Marcel. The boy tugs his lip into his mouth, biting at it and backing away from the car to lock it. There is a fumble in his step that seems vaguely familiar.

   The mysterious boy reaches into his pocket and brings out his phone. He flicks his fingers over the screen. He leans against a tree and pulls at his lip with his fingers. Louis finds that extremely hot for some reason and he jumps when he feels his phone buzz.

   _Hi, where are you? I’m outside. From Marcel_

Louis frowns, seeing no Marcel anywhere. _Me too. Where outside are you?_

_Parking lot. By a silver Merc_

Louis’ eyes widen. No…there was no way that the boy was Marcel. He types in a text. _I’m by the doors. Come meet me x_

He adds the x on the end almost as a reflex. He watches as the boy leaning on the tree checks his phone and then, looks up. He meets Louis’ gaze and a smile flickers over his face.

   _Oh shit,_ Louis thinks. _It is him._

He can see it, now; the long legs, the fumble as he straightens his blazer and, as he comes closer, his eyes. It is Marcel. Louis is pretty sure he looks like an idiot with his mouth flopping open like a fish and his eyes wide. He quickly steels his expression when he sees that Zayn raises his eyebrows beside him.

   Zayn looks Marcel up and down suspiciously, clearly not recognizing him. He places a protective hand on Louis’ back and tenses his body. Marcel sees this and frowns, confused.

   Louis smiles, stepping away from Zayn’s hand and towards Marcel.

   “Hi,” Marcel says, blushing.

   “Hi, yourself. Marcel, you look amazing,” Louis runs his eyes all over Harry’s body, taking in the gangly length of his body, the brightness of his eyes and the soft curls perched atop his head.

   “Marcel?” Louis hears Zayn’s blubbering voice behind him. “You’re Marcel? The nerd from school?”

   “Hey!” Louis hits him on the side of his skull, scolding him. Zayn holds up his hands, backing off. He grabs Perrie, pulling her behind him. She sends a friendly smile to Marcel and Louis beams at her for being the considerate girl she is. Marcel looks to Louis kind of awkwardly and waves one of his hands around. It’s the one holding the plastic box.

   “I got this for you. I didn’t know if you already had one or not, but I…”

   Louis puts his hands over Marcel’s. “I love it. Will you help me pin it?”

   Marcel nods eagerly and opens the box with long fingers. He drops the box in the nearest trash can and fiddles with the flower. He tugs at Louis’ lapel, bringing him closer and Louis sucks in a sharp breath. Marcel seems not to notice as he pins the white rose to his jacket and then thumbs at one of the petals.

   “Now, we match,” Marcel speaks up, his smile brilliant. Louis starts. Why has he never asked this boy out before? He has always thought that Marcel is special and cute. He is adorable and kind and always had this proud look on his face when the teacher praises him for his good work. He is so tall and has the longest legs in the world, Louis thinks.

    Marcel holds out the crook of his arm, waiting for Louis to thread his own through. Louis does, grinning the whole time. They walk in like that; Marcel completely infatuated with Louis’ smile and Louis clutching his arm tight to his body, wanting to feel his warmth.

   They receive several side-long glances, but the pair ignores them as they head toward the drinks. Marcel pours punch for both himself and Louis and the blue-eyed boy accepts his cup with a kiss on Marcel’s cheek. He blushes at that and quickly takes a sip from his drink.

   They spend that whole night just dancing crazily and laughing so hard. Louis can’t remember the time where he’s had most fun and he catches himself gazing at Marcel longingly when the slow dance song comes on. Marcel just reaches for him sheepishly, bringing him in close, pressing their bodies together.

   Marcel has his hands on Louis’ waist and he can feel them trembling slightly through his shirt. Their jackets got lost long ago when they started dancing. Marcel is only in his black shirt, hair ruffled and curling even more as sweat sticks to his forehead. Louis has his white shirt on and has loosened his black tie so he can unbutton his collar.

   Still out of breath from their wild flailing, Louis leans his head against Marcel’s chest. From this angle, he can sort of see down his shirt. He blinks in shock and leans back. He reaches up to undo a few buttons, showing off Marcel’s collarbones. Ignoring Marcel’s look of shock, Louis traces his fingers over his skin.

   “You have tattoos?” he asks unbelievingly. He feels Marcel chuckle rumble through his chest. Marcel lifts his hand to trail his fingertips over Louis’ cheekbones, his jawline and his neck. Louis shivers at the light touch.

   “Yeah, got ‘em a while back. It was the first thing I did when I turned eighteen,” Marcel’s voice has gotten deeper and Louis feels his hand travel back up to lift his chin.

   He breathes in a sharp breath when he feels Marcel’s lips press to his. They are soft and they move perfectly in sync with Louis’. It’s every kiss Louis has ever wanted in one and he’s overwhelmed by the burning sensation of _more._ He reaches up to card his fingers through Marcel’s curls and tugs on them. Marcel’s touch moves down the expanse of his back down the top curve of Louis’ bum.

   Their lips press harder together and at a more frantic pace. Louis realizes that Marcel has wanted this for a while now and he isn’t about to back down. The kiss goes on for who knows how long and when they break away, they are both breathless, panting into each other’s mouths.

   “I’ve wanted to do that for so long, Lou,” Marcel whispers. “You’ve no idea.”

   “I didn’t realize how much I’ve wanted this, until now. I’ve always seen you in classrooms and corridors and you always seemed so damn _untouchable_ , like I couldn’t reach you, because you’ve always kept away from me and my ‘clique’, I guess you could say.”  Louis presses kisses all the way down Marcel’s neck, lacing his fingers through his. Marcel brings their joined hands up to kiss the back of Louis’.

   “Now, you have me. I’m yours.”

   Louis exhales softly, closing his eyes. “And I’m yours.”


End file.
